Scrivenshaft DP Grapple
by WishIWould
Summary: An original villain, joining the rest of the Ghost Zone in the final battle at Amity Park. For contest, see SummersSixEcho's www . deviantart . com account for details.
1. Scrivenshaft's Recruitment

A final invasion. How…quaint.

Oh, I will relish this one.

The tip of my violet tongue pricks The Quill's nib with a soft, wet _snap_. Delicately, I stroke the tips of my long, emaciated fingers down its feathery spine. A hush seems to fall like frozen crystals across this deserted moor in the Ghost Zone, as every ecto-particle within earshot holds its breath in anticipation.

How shall we begin today? A romance, perhaps? Oh, _Masters_, no – too disgustingly quixotic. Though I do like the notion of using the infamous half-breed's name as a curse word.

"Quill!"

The feather jumps from my fingers and stands, quivering, on its tip. A minuscule blot of verdant ink drips.

"Jot that down, somewhere permanent…Vlad Masters is a curse." A sneering grin twisted my lips. A double-entendre, indeed!

With a burst of energy, the writing utensil whose power goes far beyond any mere pencil whirs about so speedily that it seems, for a moment, to be nothing more than a soot-colored tornado. As always, I can see its effects as immediately as they occur – dear Johnny 13's surprise at his latest motorcycle crash draws the new obscenity from his lips; Ember's latest Vlad-centered honorary ballad receives an immediate GG-17 rating (ghostly guidance until seventeen); and the despicable mutt himself, cowering alone in his mansion, trembles suddenly at the sudden feel of a name losing power. How delicious.

"Right. That will be enough, Quill."

I tap my brittle fingers against one another. Having ruled romance out, I am significantly limited – who was it that said "Every story is a love story?" Bah. I can snap my fingers and create an anecdote with more power than all the bad soap operas, romance novels, and "chick flicks" in the world combined – and not even a whisper or intimation of "I love you" within it.

An angsty poem, then. Heaven knows they're certainly in vogue. But, would it really befit the situation?

Ah, yes. A drama. In the style of an ancient myth, perhaps. What can be more dramatic than a final invasion, after all? My eyes glow red as it begins.

_As the world turned, creaking, on its hinges, the inhabitants within could feel a sudden change – as if a jolt of electricity had shocked them and moved on. Wave by wave, the citizens of the earth turn their focus to their last hope – the place they would make their last stand agaisnt the demons that haunted them – in Amity Park._

Oh, please. I roll my eyes. Just a city far below par in intelligence and depth.

_The heroes would gatherfor a final defense. The ghosts would amass an army from the depths of their traitorous Zone. Soon, the two forces would meet._

_Danny Phantom, the enigma that had risen and fallen in the public's eye with more vacillation than the national economy, floated alone. He lingered silently somewhere between the high school bell tower and neighborhood rooftops. Would he make it? Would he wake up another day to find that half of him had gone…had died? Whether ghost or boy, he didn't know. But he was afraid to find out._

Danny Phantom. As an opponent, he made no more than a pest. But that was as an opponent. As a character…what could be more fulfilling, more refreshingly gratifying, than literarily stripping him down to the soul of his worries and fears – if he even had a soul anymore? The possibilities with a boy half-ghost were endless.

_Across space and dimensions, in a land the young hero and his friends called "The Ghost Zone," a villain awaited._

How I do love self-insertions.

_Scrivenshaft was his name. Scrivenshaft and his Quill. To the naked eye, he seemed only a wrinkled, haggard old man with tired, bloodshot eyes and a liking for words. But beneath the pruny exterior, beneath the aged skin where words coiled like living tattoos around his very limbs, Scrivenshaft had more weapons in his power than he cared to admit to anyone, ghost or human, 'friend' or foe._

_Plagiarism, of course, was one of his favorites. He had the ability to summon a shadow-form of any adversary. The shadow's mimicking of action and weapon often drove his opponents to distraction. And, of course, the "plagiarized" being could be controlled by Scrivenshaft alone – for it would ultimately be a creation of the mind, though its powers would certainly be as real and damaging as the powers of whomever it was based upon. Mindless copies always had their disadvantages – but oh, how many advantages!_

_Narration fell along the lines of psychological warfare more than anything physically damaging. The wizened writer liked to cast this at the beginning of his duels, and expose for all to hear the secret thoughts and fears of his opponents. Of course, as resident author, Scrivenshaft controlled all of it. The Narration had bias. It would describe every event as it happened, every move and blow – but always, always, it used its booming voice to paint its master as the victor._

How I love to see the sweat bead on their foreheads, even as the Narration shouts aloud their thoughts, "It's just a trick, he's just trying to get to me, he's just…getting…trying to…."

_And then there was Tendinitis. _

I shudder at the word, even as The Quill scribbles it across the oblivion. Every artist who dares call himself an author fears this treacherous beast. In its natural state, tendinitis causes its victims' tendons and muscles to stiffen, swell and ache, rendering most writing impossible. But I_have_ found a way to harness its power. I shall never call _it_ master; never again. Somehow, it gives me a sick joy to see my rivals' hands seize in the midst of whatever clever move they thought they would pull. Tendinitis leaves one helpless, and saps all the body (or non-body)'s energy into healing.

Of course, such a powerful thing has its limits. In its harnessed form, Tendinitis can only afflict a ghost or person for one full minute. But so much can be done in sixty seconds.

_But the prize Scrivenshaft treasured above all was his quill. The Quill._

It _must_ be a definite article; there's none other like it in this world or the mortal world.

_With its powers of the manipulation, Scrivenshaft used the quill to modify reality. Never be anything large; neither man nor ghost could control fate. But with The Quill, this ghost could tweak it. Make seconds jump forward or back a few seconds, perhaps, or perhaps push a bump into the pavement or a breeze into the sky. _

_And with a touch, The Quill could bring the words circling on his skin to life. Like coils of rope, they would bind his opponents._

I do love to see them squirm.

_Amidst these strange powers, the standard ecto-blaster on the master's belt seemed a bit prosaic. But Scrivenshaft knew the power of traditions – _they certainly can make for the best stories, anyway, traditions – _and would not approach something so foul, so crucial as this ultimate showdown, without at least a Neutrino and arm-barrels, never mind their anachronistic high tech feel compared to the poeticism of his other weapons._

_Hovering at the summit of the Ghost World, Scrivenshaft finally completed his recruitment, and lay down his Quill._

Figuratively, of course. The Quill follows me of its own accord, and I never allow myself to go where it cannot follow.

_It was time for the first round to begin._


	2. Scrivenshaft vs Drew Marsetti

I peer through the orb at my victim, amused. Well, well, can this be? My first opponent? I snap my delicate fingers, and the Narration's voice booms loudly for a moment.

"_Where's Scott?" he worried, trying to maintain his usual calm as his slapping footsteps echo forlornly across the deserted city streets. "And Alex has been missing for almost an hour now…"_

"Hush, you idiot!" I hiss as the boy looks up at the sound of the voice, suddenly tense and guarded. That's the problem with these orbs – one can't just watch one-sidedly. In the mortal world, the voice had shaken the air just as ferociously as it did here. Dre had heard.

I roll my fingertips across some imagined marble and press it smaller. "There," I say, and place the now-whispering Narration a hair's breadth from my ear.

"_What the - ?" he breathed. But he shook it off, and kept going. He can keep it cool. He always has. He's always had to…ever since they died. _

_Scott needed him. _

_Still, the nineteen-year-old felt a tic clench somewhere near his jawline. He never felt right when he didn't know where his little brother was._

"Interesting," I purr to The Quill. Its hairlike feathers shudder in delight at the sound of my voice. "We have some bait."

_Drew felt the weight of his backpack tug at him reassuringly as he picked up his pace. He glanced around. Sure enough, he had an almost endless stock of metal around him. _

_He shouldn't need more than the frying pan, though. His strong fingers wrapped around the familiar handle, seeking reassurance from its touch. The pan glowed blue._

_Yes, it had always been enough._

Hmm. What is this, then? So he's a mere human, then…but with these powers? My, he certainly has scope for the imagination, doesn't he?

I'm certain that, whatever the real story behind this anamoly, it couldn't be half as fascinating as the history _I_ could write for him. _Will_ write for him. Once he's mine.

_A prick of liquid heat oozes from his stomach. Gasping quietly, Drew's hand goes reflexively to his stomach. The wound his opponent had left still stung. He had to take care of it soon – but where could he go in this town, anyway? Was anywhere safe?_

_Where was Scott?_

A tremor quakes through my rheumatic body, and I snap the orb off.

"That's enough." The velvet words slide, squirming, from my mouth, and the whispered voice ceases. Ropes of tattooed words on my body swirl around, glowing a gentle violet. I approach the portal. "It's time to begin."

* * *

A warm, mortal breeze ripples through my cotton-stiff hair. I had enjoyed breezes once. Maybe I still do. Rare is the time I take to stop and feel it. But I have work to do now.

My shrunken skin crinkles almost like paper as I raise my hands. They smolder with a sickly green, and I cast my spell – Plagiarism.

Feet below me on the ground, shadows pull from the park bench, trees and lamp, and gather to create a twisted form on the ground. It darkens, opaque now, and shifts into a more solid shape. The hair burns red, the skin lightens, and golden eyes emerge.

Scott Marsetti now lies on the ground. A perfect copy, if I say so myself. Save for the injuries. Wherever he may be, the true Scott is probably faring much better than his shadow-built counterpart. I spare it half a glance only, then go invisible.

"Drew!" The copy's voice is wracked with pain. From my vantage point in the park, I can see through the trees as Drew stiffens. He knows that voice – the voice he's had an ear especially tuned to since the day their parents died. He will come.

"Fall back," I growl through clenched teeth. My plan is simple: lure the boy into the park, and away from the precious stores of readily available metal. Weapons – threats, to me. An electrical current runs through the copy's body – a reaction to anger, I recall. And perhaps also of a simulation of fear. He retreats.

Drew steps purposefully, yet warily, into the trees. I glide through the trees, following behind him from some distance. It's too bad I'm behind him, for the moment he comes upon the trail of burnt and wilted grass his 'brother' had left behind. I want to see his eyes. Right now, the way his back stiffens – his hand clenches the pan with white-knuckled ferocity – I want to see the pain in his eyes. It's a pain born out of love. I don't know it. I need to write it before I can understand it – and then, it will be my own.

But he has to be mine, first.

A pain-filled moan sounds from deeper in the trees. I can just imagine the way his victim's heart stops. He starts to run. I follow.

We come into a small clearing. I scan the area – no lamps, and just a small bench far on the other side of that stand of trees. With luck, he won't even see it.

He doesn't see anything, now. Just the form lying still in the center of the clearing. For a moment, I forget my victim, and see only this thing _I_ had created. I…won't even describe. His wounds are vicious. Had these images really come out of my own mind? I had made this? Had I really brought this boy here to see his brother die?

"Scott," Drew breathed, and leapt to his brother's side. The copy could do little but cough weakly – it hadn't much originality to it beyond that – but it is enough, for the boy, to see that. For all its limitations, the copy is quite effective. He looks like he's dying.

Drew's hands shake helplessly above his brother's body as sparks fly above it. Is there even a place he can hold him without hurting him? Did I not even leave him that much? I approach the brothers, just as Drew takes Scott's hand.

I can hear the angry spittle rattle in his mouth as he sucks in a breath, slowly, through his teeth.

Suddenly he lunges in my general direction, brandishing a glowing blue mass of metal in his right hand. "I know you're here!" he shouts. "You did this to him – so come and face me!"

Is he losing his control, his characteristic calm? Have I broken him? A part of me, born of habit, wants to cast the Narration to find out. Shout it across the sky. I shudder involuntarily. I don't want to be in his mind now, any more than he does. I pull myself back into the cover of the trees.

The leaves rustle at my passing – did I plan that? – and his eyes narrow. He moves toward me, still gripping the metal – now a long rod – like some kind of lifeline. He seems to be looking right at me. What can I do? Very little. When it comes down to it, I'm just an old man with a pen. I'm no match for this boy, child though he still may be. But I show myself.

Our eyes lock.

He lunges for me, bringing the rod down hard on my head. Ghost I may be, but I see stars. I pull the Neutrino from my belt – forget poeticism, this is my non-life at stake – and send a blast his way. Drew twists, and it grazes his stomach just over his barely-scabbing wound. He screams. But he doesn't lose the momentum of his twist, and allows it to carry the rod all the way through the swing. It hits me square in the face, and I'm knocked flat on my back.

A sheen of sweat – or whatever the ecto-equivelent may be – glistens on my forehead. I am not as young as I once was. Or was I ever young? Whatever the case, I'm losing. I see in his eyes, as he stands over me. He means to finish this.

Kill? Would he? I squint into his eyes, his young eyes. A brother's eyes. I don't need the Narration this time to know…he won't kill me if I don't make him. If I can even die at this point, anyway. Heroes have the easy way out – a magic canister that sucks the ghosts away. It's never so easy for the villains.

He steps closer, raising the bar above his head.

From my position on the ground, I twitch my finger. Behind my opponent, the copy's back arches in pain. "Drew!" he screams. My own heart plummets as Drew whips his head around.

Immediately, he drops his rod and runs to his brother. Just like that. I gape.

"Scott," he says hoarsely. He tries to calm him. Stupid, really. He's helpless to do anything. I have the power. A wave of revulsion wells up in me. I repress it. It's time to finish this.

I twitch my finger again. For a moment, the copy's eyes glow red. Drew freezes. His brother rises from the ground, a new expression on its face. Twisted. Contorted. With hate…with bloodlust.

They say every character you make is a part of yourself. I suppose, somewhere in my heart, there lives a murderer.

Drew's eyes flash – wide and green. Finally, with tears in them. I will always remember those eyes. The copy uses Scott's powers of electricity. I close my eyes, unable to watch.

You're mine now, I think, trying to distract myself. I'll write something…some life better for you than what you had…better than what you'll miss….

But I can hear the lie echo in the thud when Drew's body hits the ground.


	3. Scrivenshaft vs Alice Nightmare

I sigh, a long, drawn-out exhalation of sheer boredom. This man, this character...I couldn't do anything with it.

A bead in his eye. Who did he think he was, the son of Coraline's Other Mother? Who wandered the earth seeking an opponent that could best him? How many characters had used that motif before?

But I digress.

It didn't take long listening with the power of Narration to figure out this man's motive. A man, named Alice, by the way. Alice Cooper would be ashamed.

Deep or not, Alice Nightmare's physical powers are far beyond my own. I must find another way to defeat him. And, yes, kill him.... When I do, I will not have the kinds of doubts that plagued me with Drew Marsetti, the mourning of innocence. I'll kill Alice easily. Though I have to do it in less than sixty seconds, as apparently nothing can hold him that long....

Pride goeth before a fall. Am I to fail before I begin? No, no...let me start again.

Alice flies high above the trees. Already, carelessness creeps upon me as I consider just sending a neutrino blast into the sky. I'll maintain a distance - I don't want any of that nasty black flame on my suit.

Instead, I summon The Quill. The tattoos of words on my arms begin to glow, and free themselves from my skin. Alice barely has time to register the words flying towards him before he dodges. So it's true. He _is_ fast, and unbelievably strong..

With a twitch of my Quill, I alter reality just a smidge - just to slow Alice's speed enough for my chains of words to bind him. Alice is strong. He roars to break free and falls quickly to the ground, struggling all the while. But that's the genius behind it...What physical strength can battle...fiction?

For good measure, I infect his legs with the dreaded Tendinitis, then with a word to my Quill alter the reality of Alice's location by...oh...ten feet. Beneath the ground.

He'll suffocate there, eventually. I find myself hard-pressed to care. A part of me mourns that loss of human pity in my spirit...perhaps it died with Drew. Perhaps it was only ever an illusion.

But I fly off, smirking slightly that the undefeatable Alice was so easily stopped by just a few words from my Quill.


	4. Scrivenshaft vs Ryan Hawk

Danny stood with crossed arms, staring with glowing green eyes at the human teenager before him. He shook his shock of white hair out of his eyes and said, "Look, Ryan, I don't have time for this."

Ryan struggled not to sigh in exasperation. "I don't think you quite understand – "

"No, I get it!" Danny's legs dissolved into their ghostly form and he hovered threateningly above the blond's head, glaring down at him. "You've traveled from your other dimension, or _Realm_ or whatever, and now your big bad Armor enemies have followed you here. And you want _me_ to put _you_ in charge of everything to do with them, right?"

Ryan nodded, his face a mask against Danny's glare.

"Well I've got news for you," Danny continued, his voice raising into a pitch that strained his teenaged vocal cords. "We're at _war_ here, and I'm in charge, and I need my crew not to challenge my decisions every second, all right?"

Ryan struggled to keep the frustration from his voice. "We _are_ at war, but a much bigger war than you can have anticipated. The Multi-Realm Defense Force – "

"I don't _care_ about your defense force! I've gotta deal with the here and now, all right? So lay off!" With that Danny stalked off, obviously peeved.

Ryan clenched his fists and his jaw, feeling seriously ticked.

"Calm down," came Cam's voice through his headset – the invisible, intangible one that he wore at all times. "We don't want you storming off site again."

"Right," Ryan sighed, and turned away. Couldn't Danny _see_ that there was absolutely no disadvantage to allowing someone much more experienced and knowledgeable about Armors deal with them? There was no way a group of programmed Armors had truly just _left_ this Realm. It was unthinkable.

_Unthinkable..._

A drop of emerald ink splatters against my skin. _No, not unthinkable…impossible?_ The Quill shudders, and with a tremor of its soot-colored fibers, it zooms to scratch out the offending word, and ink in a new one. _Impossible..._

As I scrawl, I'm not quite sure why the muse beckons me write out this particular scene. Just recording, not manipulating, not using my powers to twitch reality into some different form than currently exists. Just watching, and writing, and pondering how this character dynamic might be used to my advantage. For Ryan Hawk, the Realm-traveling child of great power and technology, would be my next victim.

This tension between my next pet and his leader intrigues me, it's true. But can I exploit it? Surely not…either child is too noble to consider even for a fraction of a second truly betraying the other.

I let my thoughts coast on, losing focus on the scene before me. How does one destroy an invincible man? The realm of his abilities, his forms, his weapons, his experience, was astounding to say the least, and endless to say the most.

I feel a low growl in the back of my mind, and turn my thoughts inward. Ah, Drew. My first victim. Now my pet. _No worries, child,_ I assure him, as his lip curls. _I'll write you an ending you can't complain about. As soon as I'm finished with this Hawk Fellow…and perhaps your brother, too…_

In my mind, he lunges at me. But of course, he can't really. I roll my eyes, finding it easier and easier by the day to feel distanced from Drew Marsetti. At this act of attempted violence on his part, I shut my concentration on him away. Truly, I don't hold his soul captive…he's likely flying free somewhere in the cloudy heavens right now. But as a character in my mind, to maintain correct character behavior? Of course he must loathe me.

Now, for the matter of Ryan Hawk…I surely cannot even dare to approach him in a fight. No, I'll have to pull the strings behind the curtain, as always.

Irony leaves the sweetest touch, of course. Now, what can I utilize…? His rather magnificent suit of armor can supply only ninety minutes of oxygen. How delicious if he were to be somehow locked in a vacuum for ninety-five…. And to be able to say that nothing can defeat his invulnerability – "Nothing," indeed, being the cause of his demise!

I sigh, and flick my wrist at a bothersome ecto-fly. The boy's extra-residential soul, Ray Hammera, would hardly allow that to happen. With Hawk's ability to open gates to different worlds, contain areas from even a bomb's explosion, keep in contact with his little support base through that headset…he'd be able to get out of even such a pickle as, say a vacuum. Although he'd shut off the Realm system upon entering Amity Park, I doubt I can come up with a pocket of vacuum out of nowhere, anyway. A bit more than a simple "twitch" on reality.

I sit at my desk, growing more and more irritable under the light of a green ecto-candle. What could be the catch? The secret weakness? Hawk has two attacks that would each deplete his life by half, but he's fully aware. He would never simply forget in the face of conflict. What is the loophole? The trick?

The Quill bristles on its tip. My scarlet eyes slide to a deep focus on its excited quiver, as my wrinkled purple brows draw together above them. The trick…the trick….

I snap my fingers, and shoot up from my seat.

I've found it.

* * *

Ryan Hawk ran through Amity Park with such great speed that, to any watching, he seemed to fly.

"Armors," he repeated into his webcam. "Armors crawling all over the city! Send in that probe, Tom!" Danny Phantom or no Danny Phantom, Ryan couldn't let this pass him by.

I wait within the city. The air on this human plane tastes stale and foul compared to the ectoplasmic oxygen I so prefer. But for this plan to succeed, Hawk must see me in person. Or at least, in ghost-form.

"Hush, Quill," I whisper to my pet, cupping my hand around its plume. "Let us watch…" I gesture with my thin, brittle hands.

Our young hero dashes around the corner. Despite his intense focus upon the Armors gathering in the Realm, I already feel his superior senses registering my presence, and his body changing direction and plan, quick as lightning. But the mind's speed surpasses the body's.

The glowing tattoos of words coiling around my form fly toward Ryan Hawk and knock him back, then whip tightly around his body. "Oof!"

The boy finds his torso and legs bound to a tree, and his arms restrained each at the wrist by a long, glowing cord of purple words. But no matter what moves he attempts to implement, none can avail themselves against the power of my words. Alchemy, dark energy, what use are they against the strength of words? No amount of strength or regeneration serums, no suit or weapon, can allow him to overpower it.

Ryan looks up, and bares his teeth at me with a snarl.

"Welcome!" I declare, motioning to the scene of destruction behind me, in the sun's dying light. The armors seemed to have one objective: destroy every home, every human, and every person on the side of Ryan Hawk or Danny Phantom left in Amity Park. "Behold your enemies!"

I can see his frustration mounting. By now he has probably discovered another of the small "twitches" I implemented with The Quill – binding Ray's ability to communicate with him. Just a fallback, but possibly a vital one.

Danny and other members of his crew dart out of the ghost shield one by one, fighting hopelessly against the overwhelming swarms of Armors terrorizing the city.

"Your mind must be racing," I taunt. His glare's intensity increases tenfold. "But surely you must be reaching a conclusion…"

His eyes dart back and forth as, one by one, his allies begin to fall.

"Only one weapon has the strength to defeat them...."

I cast Narration, just as he reaches his conclusion.

_"Soul Arm."_

He takes a breath, and uses one of his arms to heft his own, personally developed weapon. The Soul Arm, dependent on the energy and power of the user. For Ryan, its powers would be astronomical – enough to take out, say…an army.

But at a cost.

"Hell's Fury!" he shouts, and the Soul Arm takes its form. A jet-black blaster forms in his hands. Dark energy swirls about the gun's barrel. My scarlet eyes begin to glow with sick joy. I count one, two three…eight cannons form and reveal themselves along the side of the elaborate weapon.

"Danny, retreat!" Ryan calls out. "Get all your men out of the way!"

For once, Danny Phantom doesn't challenge Hawk's orders. I hear a faint _"Pull back!" _in the distance, as each hero withdraws again into the ghost shield. From my perch, now floating above the protective green dome, I can watch each of Ryan's moves with ease – and avoid the effects of the weapon.

He lifts Hell's Fury. Eight dark meteors shoot from the gleaming barrels.

An entire army of Armors…gone. Ryan Hawk slumps against the tree, feeling the effects already as half his energy is drained to power the attack.

"_But they're gone," _I hear in his thoughts. "_The city is safe…it's worth it."_

But as the sun's setting light bleeds a deep red, something appears on the horizon. A line…a formation.

More Armors.

I begin to fly my own way. I don't need to see the only end possible. I can write it out on my own.

"Here, Quill." I snap my fingers, and it trails alongside me, scribbling in the air even as we leave this place.

_The young hero knew he had only one option left. He had always been a fighter…an asset, vital to the importance of the Multi-Realm Defense Force. But what good would anything he could do later be, if he allowed an entire Realm to be destroyed – all because he was not willing to sacrifice himself?_

_The Soul Arm's strength depends upon the strength and power of its user. Ryan had made sure of that himself. His Soul Arm could destroy any other he came up against. But along with depending on power and strength…it took it. One half of his energy.  
_

_Half was already gone._

_Two halves…make a whole._

_"Heaven's Wrath," Ryan whispered, as the endless line of Armors loomed ever closer. But this time, it was not truly endless. The formation had an end. These were the last of the Armors in Amity Park._

_The weapon formed itself in Ryan's hands. A spear-tipped gun, with three halo tips that could extend and fire pure energy. The only thing left, really, that could take out an army of this magnitude._

_He took careful aim, and fired. With one shot, the entire army was hit with a blast of pure energy so strong that no one survived the hit._

_Ryan barely had the strength left to feel his binds breaking. His body fell to the ground, freed, now, of its restraints._

_The light left his eyes before he could see the Plagiarized forms of each Armor's carcass disappear. Ryan Hawk died before he learned that his sacrifice…had been against an army of mere shadows._

_All in vain._

I smirk as I return to the chaos elsewhere, alongside several of my fellow victims.

A perfect ending.


End file.
